


cold desert

by WeeBeastie



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternative Sexuality, Canon Disabled Character, Demisexuality, John has a sad past, John is demisexual, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Past Relationship(s), Touch Aversion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 17:03:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13745433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeeBeastie/pseuds/WeeBeastie
Summary: i've never ever cried when i was feeling downi've always been scared of the soundjesus don't love me, no one ever carried my loadi'm too young to feel this old





	cold desert

**Author's Note:**

> Based off a prompt I got from a few people (mainly Maze *waves*) to write a fic where Silver is demisexual. It turned out a lot longer than I anticipated and I think it might become a series. Stay tuned!
> 
> Lyrics in the title & summary borrowed from “Cold Desert” by Kings of Leon.

John looks down the dark, gleaming bar one way, then the other. It’s a Thursday, early yet, still a little slow. It’s summer, though, and summer in Santa Barbara means tourists. It’ll get busy soon enough. There’s only one other bartender on at the moment, a shortish, youngish guy with long hair that he usually wears in twin braids. He calls himself Willie, and John isn’t sure whether the name came first or the braids did. The few customers who are already there are mostly regulars, people who for whatever reason (boredom, loneliness, excessive wealth) have nothing better to do at 3 on a Thursday than hang around a wine bar. 

There’s only one person there John has never seen before. 

He’s sitting on one of the padded leather stools a ways to John’s right, a half-full glass of rosé wine on a coaster near his left hand, a book open on the bar in front of him. He’s not particularly remarkable except for the fact that he’s reading - not skimming, either, but visibly engrossed in his book - in a bar. Who does that anymore? The man has red hair and pale, freckled skin, and when John took his order and brought him his wine, he noticed his eyes were green. 

The evening wears on. The sun sets. The bar fills up - with more regulars, some new sunburnt tourists, and a couple on an awkward Tinder date that John can’t help but eavesdrop on. He gets some of his best stories from listening to people on awkward first dates. 

“Behind you, John,” Willie says, only startling him a little as he slips past him to take the orders of a group of young women, one in a plastic tiara and a sash that reads ‘Buy me a shot - I’m tying the knot.’

“May I settle up, please?” inquires a voice to John’s right, and when he looks away from the bachelorette party he sees the bookish redhead signaling him. 

“Sure,” he says as he saunters over, smiling congenially at the man. He takes his card and turns around to run it through the point of sale terminal. 

“Getting busy in here,” the redhead observes from behind John. His card says his name is James E. Flint. 

“Yeah, tourist town in the summer, what can you do,” John murmurs as he turns back around, putting the card, the receipt, and a pen on the bar in front of him. “Your autograph on there, please, and then you’re all set.”

The man - James - signs the receipt and slides it back across the bar to John. “Have a good evening,” he says, then stands up from the barstool and walks out. 

When John looks down at the slip of paper, he sees James has left him a rather generous tip. He smiles as he tucks it into the pocket of his apron, vaguely hoping he might see James again, in the way he hopes to see all generous customers again. 

He gets his wish two nights later, and again the night after that. James always comes in early, orders a glass of wine (usually rosé), and slowly drinks it and sometimes a second glass while reading a book. He leaves as soon as it starts getting busy. 

On a Tuesday night almost two weeks after James first came in, he surprises John by striking up a conversation. So far they’ve existed in something of an amicable silence - some people want to talk to John, or want him to want to talk to them, so he puts on a bit of a show for them. He tells stories, makes them laugh. But James hasn’t been that way. He’s nice, friendly even, but he doesn’t demand John’s attention the way some other, needier customers do. 

“John,” James says to him on that Tuesday, as the sun is beginning to set outside, his book shut on the bar in front of him and his first glass of wine half-gone. “Where’re you from?”

John shifts his weight, runs his tongue over his teeth in consideration. “Arizona,” he says. “Phoenix, to be specific. Why d’you ask?”

“Because I’ve been here often enough now that I’ve heard you tell people that you’re from Orlando, Schenectady, Brawley, and Aberdeen, Washington. Now you say Arizona when I ask,” he says with a little smile. “So which is it?”

John feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. James doesn’t seem upset or confrontational, though, just curious. “Uh, you caught me,” John says with a little bark of self-conscious laughter. “I make up stories sometimes, I don’t really want to go spilling my guts to customers. They get weird if they think they really know you.”

James shrugs easily, and when he smiles he puts John, inexplicably, in mind of a fox. “A story is true, a story is untrue. It doesn’t matter, I was just wondering. You’re very convincing.”

“Bartenders have to be good storytellers,” John agrees, wiping a spot of moisture off the bar with his ever-present bar rag. “It’s part of what people come here for.”

“You do tell entertaining stories, I’ve seen you,” James says. “And you make excellent wine recommendations,” he adds, chuckling. 

“Thanks,” John says with a little smile, folding his arms over his chest and looking down the bar. A woman, a blonde regular who likes to buy John drinks (which he usually discretely gets rid of), waves him down so she can order them each a glass of wine and tell him her latest tale of woe. She likes to grab at his arms and shoulders as she talks to him, and he does his best not to show how very, very uncomfortable that makes him. 

Once she’s talked his ear off to her satisfaction and he’s made her feel better about the state of things, he returns to James, grateful for his relative laconism. 

“Does that happen a lot?” James inquires, glancing up from his book to look John steadily in the eye. 

“What, the emotional rambling or the clutching at my arm? Or both?” John asks. 

“Buying you drinks,” he clarifies. “I can’t imagine how you can drink on the job and not be completely wasted by the end of the night.”

“I have a hollow leg,” John jokes darkly, and when James laughs he grins, wolfish. He loves this bit. “No, really,” he says, and steps around the end of the bar, pulling his left pants leg up so James can see the prosthetic. 

James stares, visibly taken aback, then looks up at John’s face again. He looks almost ashamed, which wasn’t John’s intent at all. “I’m sorry I laughed, I...didn’t know.”

“No, no! It’s okay!” John says, feeling a little bad. He retreats behind the bar again. “I’m cool with it. I'm the one who made a joke about it, anyway.”

“As long as you’re cool with it, I suppose. I’m glad I didn’t offend you,” James says.

John expects that he’ll ask what happened, now, because that’s what everyone does when they find out John is missing his left leg below the knee. He always makes up a story for that, too - he doesn’t even want to think about the truth, much less speak it out loud. 

But James doesn’t ask. They exist there for a few moments in companionable silence, and then John finally thinks to ask James something he’s been wondering about. 

“What’re you reading?” he asks, folding his arms on the bar and leaning on them. 

“Ah, I’ve been rereading the classics,” James says, turning the book over so John can see that it’s Shakespeare - _Othello_ , to be precise. “I had to read them in high school, of course, like everyone did. But I didn’t particularly appreciate them then, and now I’ve got a lot of free time, so,” he says, and rolls his shoulders in an easy shrug. 

“What do you do? For work, I mean,” John says. “You seem like a creative type. Painter? Photographer?” he guesses. 

“Close,” James says with a little smile. “I’m an architect. I moved here about a month ago, I live just up the road,” he explains. 

“So not a tourist, then,” John says, fidgeting with the bracelet on his left wrist. It’s a fairly simple thing, woven in a chevron pattern with repeating stripes of purple, black, gray, and white. He’s noticed James looking at it before. “I thought maybe you were just visiting. You sound...English?” he tries. He’s seen enough tourists come through the bar that he’s gotten pretty good at guessing where people are from by how they speak. 

“Very good guess, I am. Haven’t lived there in a long time, but the accent remains nonetheless,” James says. “I lived in Seattle, before I moved here.”

“Did you get tired of the weather? Finally find the rain too depressing?” John jokes, smiling at James. 

An emotion flickers across James’s face, too fast for John to read it. “Something like that,” he says, a muscle in his cheek twitching. 

John shifts his weight, feeling suddenly awkward. Fortunately a group of regulars comes in through the door then, giving him a much-needed distraction. He fetches them a round of drinks and catches up with them, and by the time he goes to check on James, he’s gone. In place of his book on the bar, there’s cash (more than enough to cover his tab and a healthy tip), his empty wine glass, and a cocktail napkin with a phone number and a note written in neat, precise script: ‘This is not my lame attempt to pick you up. If you’d like to discuss literature over coffee sometime, please text me. If not, no worries, I’ll continue to enjoy your company here.’

John stares at the note for a minute, then folds it and carefully tucks it into a back pocket of his jeans. He’s not sure yet if he’ll text James or not, but he wants to keep his phone number anyway. Just in case. 

He thinks about texting James when he gets off work, but it’s past closing time and he thinks architects probably keep respectable hours. He wouldn’t want to wake him. Instead he goes to bed as soon as he arrives home, and has fitful dreams until he opens his eyes a bit after dawn. It’s his day off, so by rights he should just roll over and go back to sleep, but instead he finds himself picking up his phone and fishing the cocktail napkin out of last night’s jeans. 

‘Hey it’s John. You free? I’m off today,’ he types carefully to the number in question, then exhales softly and hits send. He deliberately doesn’t look at his phone while he puts his leg on, gets out of bed, and putters around his cluttered little apartment, making coffee and putting the TV on for background noise. 

Once he’s settled on the couch with his coffee and an episode of The Office that he’s seen at least twelve times already, he risks a glance at his phone.

James has already responded: ‘Sure. Want to get coffee? There’s a nice place not far from me.’

‘Sounds good,’ John texts back quickly, ‘I’ll meet you there in an hour.’ He realizes belatedly that he didn’t really need to make his own coffee, considering, but he finishes the cup anyway before going to get ready. 

After he showers, he spends a ridiculous amount of time picking out something to wear. So much so, in fact, that by the time he’s decided on faded jeans and a gray t-shirt with ‘don’t touch my hair’ on the front in black lettering, he’s running late. He hurriedly puts on his shoes and rushes out the door, cursing himself as he walks out to the parking lot and gets in his car. It’s an ancient Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme, and most days he’s just happy that it still runs. 

He’s only about ten minutes late once he arrives at the cute little hipster coffee shop James chose. He sees the man himself sitting at a table for two in the window, his red hair all but glowing in the light of the early morning. He’s got a book open in front of him, of course, and a demitasse cup on a saucer near his left hand. It looks like he hasn’t shaved yet for the day; besides his customary mustache and well-groomed goatee he’s got a bit of ginger stubble on his cheeks. John quits staring at him through the window and goes inside, feeling a bit like everyone is staring at him as he approaches James’s table. 

“Morning,” he greets him as he sits down. “Sorry I’m late, took me longer to get ready than I thought it would,” he says, tucking his damp hair behind his ears. 

James looks up and studies him for a moment. “Morning,” he says in reply. “Not a problem,” he adds, and John can feel him examining him, looking closely. But it doesn’t bother him. “You look different, I’ve never seen you with your hair down before.”

“Oh, uh. Yeah. I wear it up at work because otherwise sometimes people can get weird and want to touch it. Hence the shirt,” he jokes, gesturing to his chest. “I’m gonna get something to drink, I’ll be right back,” he says, then gets up and joins the line of people waiting at the front counter. He returns to the table a few minutes later, coffee in hand, and makes himself at home across from James. 

“So do people really try to touch your hair if you don’t wear the shirt?” James asks, sounding intrigued and amused. 

“Definitely. At work, all the time. Drunk older women especially, they like to paw at me and I really don’t like to be touched by strangers,” John says, dipping his pinky finger into the foam on his latte and sticking it in his mouth. 

“I don’t think anyone does. Not without at least being asked permission first,” James muses, closing the book in front of him. John can see the front cover now; it’s Robert Louis Stevenson’s _Treasure Island_.

“True. But I have an— aversion to it. If someone I’m not close to touches me, my skin crawls and I feel gross,” John explains softly, fidgeting with the bracelet on his left wrist. “It’s fine with people I like. It’s even mostly okay if I’m expecting it. The worst is when a stranger touches me unexpectedly. Like, when you’re in a crowd and someone puts their hand on your arm to get by you? I can’t stand that.”

“I see, I’ll keep that in mind,” James says. He gestures towards John’s wrist, but doesn’t reach for him. “I like your bracelet. Are you, ah. Are you...asexual?” he asks, and they both look up at the same time, their eyes meeting. 

“Demisexual,” John corrects him quietly, fidgeting some more. “It means I don’t really, uh. Want to go to bed with someone until I know them pretty well. I don’t do one night stands or feeling a spark at first sight or anything like that.”

“I know what it means,” James says, resting both hands on his demitasse cup and looking keenly at John. “I’m glad you feel comfortable enough to share that with me. I’m...part of the community as well,” he says, raising one hand from the cup to rake his hair back away from his face. 

“I’m not straight either,” John blurts out, then flushes pink. “Wow, I said that really loudly. I had a girlfriend in high school, though, named Max. We dated for a year and I lost my virginity to her and everything. But she’s a lesbian now. I mean, she always was one, obviously, but she’s aware of it now? She has a nonbinary, um, partner. Their name is A and they’re a tattoo artist, they did my sleeve,” he says, gesturing vaguely at his right arm, then exhales, feeling wrung out from saying all that. “I’m gonna stop talking now.”

James laughs at him then, but not in a way that makes John feel bad. He chuckles, too, and distracts himself by taking a drink of his latte. 

“It’s good that you know yourself so well, so young. I was ashamed of being who I was for a regretfully long time,” James says.

“Well, I mean, I’m thirty now and it’s taken me since I was a teenager to figure myself out. It took some time. It wasn’t an overnight thing,” John says. 

“It rarely is,” James muses in agreement, scratching at one stubbly cheek with his fingernails. He glances out the window, then looks at John again. 

“So, _Treasure Island_ ,” John says, eager to change the subject, gesturing to the book in front of James. “The book about my life,” he jokes. James looks at him blankly, and only then does it occur to John that while he’s seen James’s last name - Flint - on his credit card, James would have no way of knowing John’s surname. “My last name is Silver,” he elaborates. 

“It is not,” James says disbelievingly, a crooked, fox-like grin on his face. “Prove it, show me your license or something. I cannot believe your name is actually, legitimately John Silver.”

“Okay, fine,” John says, giggling. He takes his wallet out of his pocket and hands his license over, so that James can see his given name: John Solomon Silver. 

“Fuck me,” James murmurs under his breath as he looks it over, and John laughs again. “I thought it was an interesting enough coincidence that the captain is called Flint. Here I had Long John Silver in front of me all along,” he says, smiling, as he hands his license back. 

“I’m even missing the same leg he is,” John points out, putting his license away. “Started getting a lot more pirate jokes after that happened.”

“How old were you? If you don’t mind my asking,” James says. 

John hesitates, remembering. 

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” James offers gently. 

“Fourteen,” John says. He doesn’t usually tell the truth about his past quite so readily, but something about James makes him want to be honest. It’s a little frightening. “It was an accident. I mean, obviously it was, it’s not like I went to the doctor and said ‘hey I’m not really using this, go ahead and take it,’” he jokes.

“Quite right,” James says, nodding. 

They spend a companionable few hours together. John volunteers only a little about himself, and learns that James mostly designs beach houses for rich people, can’t stand weak coffee, and shares a two-bedroom cottage with a pair of black cats named Scylla and Charybdis. When John glances at his phone and realizes it’s past eleven in the morning, he’s pleasantly surprised. Talking with James is so easy, so uncomplicated and straightforward, he hadn’t really noticed time passing. 

“I hate to end our conversation, but I do regrettably have work to get done today,” James says. “I would like to do this again sometime, if you’re amenable. Just text me if you’re interested,” he says as he stands up from the table, stretching his arms over his head. His shirt rides up, and John quickly drops his gaze to the table so he won’t stare. 

“I’d like that,” he says, risking a glance up at James and catching his gaze. His eyes are a remarkable shade of green, and his eyelashes are so long and so red. 

“Good,” James says, giving John a little smile that makes his breath catch. “I’ll see you later, then,” he says, and then he’s gone. John resolutely does not look out the window to watch him go. He waits a few minutes, then leaves the coffee shop, driving back home in the Cutlass to enjoy the rest of his day off. 

He gets his schedule for the next two weeks that afternoon, and is pleasantly surprised to see he’s got a Sunday off coming up, and closing shift on Monday the day after. A part of him wants to immediately text James to see if he might be free then, but he stops himself before he can send the text. Getting coffee during the day is one thing. Inviting someone to your place in the evening is another entirely. He’s been able to be remarkably honest and open with James so far - he doesn’t want to inadvertently lead him on.

Instead he texts his ex-girlfriend Max, with whom he remains close friends. She usually gives excellent advice. 

‘If I have a night off and don’t have to work early the next day, would it be too much to ask a guy over? Do you think he’d assume I want to hook up?’ he texts her, dropping his phone on the couch next to him after he sends it. He groans softly and rubs both hands over his face, wondering if he’s overthinking this. He tends to do that. 

‘Depends on the guy and how well he knows you. And yes, you’re almost certainly overthinking this,’ she replies after a few minutes. ‘Does he know you’re not a hit it & quit it guy?’ she adds after a moment. 

‘That is an impressively crass way to describe my sexuality but yeah he knows,’ John texts back, then gets up to pace his apartment, fidgeting with the bracelet on his left wrist. 

‘So ask him. Make it a neutral time like 2 or 3, not after dark so he doesn’t get the wrong impression,’ she texts him back a minute later. ‘See what happens. No pressure, just keep it casual,’ she adds, then sends him an eggplant emoji because she wouldn’t be Max if she didn’t. 

He ends up inviting James to come over to his apartment on Sunday in the late afternoon. He doesn’t really have any plans beyond hanging out with him, possibly opening a bottle of wine he’s been saving (a dry rosé), and maybe smoking a little weed together if James turns out to be into that. 

James arrives a little after 3 the following Sunday. John answers the door and smiles when he sees him there, feeling his heart starting to pound. Maybe a little wine will help with his nerves. He invites James in, telling him to make himself at home, then adjourns to the kitchen to open the wine and pour them each a glass. 

“Five o’clock somewhere,” he jokes, sitting down on the opposite end of the couch from James. 

“I’ll drink to that,” James murmurs, then leans over to gently clink his glass against John’s. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” John says quietly, and takes a sip. He can already feel his cheeks and ears flushing pink, which doesn’t usually happen until he’s had at least one glass of wine. 

“Shall I put some music on?” James offers, and John nods his assent. James picks a Spotify station on his phone and John reminds himself to relax, deliberately un-tensing his shoulders as a sweet, bluesy song starts playing. 

“This is nice,” he says shyly, looking at James.

“Yes, it is,” James says, smiling at John, and he can feel himself blushing a little more. 

Right as he’s settling into a comfortable groove, even contemplating shifting minutely closer to James on the couch, it happens. The bluesy song fades out, and the next song that fades in makes John’s heart drop into his stomach. The female singer’s sweet, sad, legato voice makes him break out in a cold sweat, and he can feel bile creeping up his throat. _No_ , he thinks frantically. _Not this, not now_. But there’s nothing he can do - ever since the accident, this song has had the wretched effect of making him sick. It was playing on the radio in their car when it all happened, and it’s like it’s seared onto his brain, causing a visceral reaction every time he hears it. Even now, sixteen years later, it’s just as bad as the first time he heard it after everything. He calmly sets his glass down and rises from the couch, fleeing to the bathroom with James calling worriedly after him. 

Once he’s finished throwing up, he folds his arms on the toilet and rests his head on them, trying to catch his breath. He hears footsteps behind him and belatedly realizes he didn’t close the door. A part of him is worried James will— judge him, somehow. Decide he’s too weird or too difficult or just too much, and not in the fun, cute, ‘you’re too much!’ way, like how Max means it when she says it. In the depressing, alienating, ‘you’re just too much for me, John’ way. 

But James just sets a cup of water on the floor near John and sits, perched, on the edge of the bathtub. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” James asks quietly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped, his expression unbearably soft. 

“I’m allergic to Lucinda Williams. Well, ‘Lake Charles,’ specifically,” John says hoarsely, sitting up slowly and reaching for the glass of water. He takes a long sip, then sets it down, feeling marginally better. “I just have bad associations with that song, unfortunately. I wish I could get over it, but so far, no dice.” He sniffs, and clears his throat. “I understand if you want to go home now.”

“I don’t, unless you want me to,” James says. “I’m just fine where I am.”

John studies him for a moment, looking for a hint that he might be lying, that he might just be saying what he thinks John wants to hear. He sees only sincerity and an inviting tranquility in James’s deep green eyes. 

“Want to go up to the roof and smoke some weed?” John offers, shifting his prosthetic leg out from under him so he can stand. 

“Sure. I haven’t done that in a long time,” James says. He gets to his feet, then holds his right hand out to John, silently offering to help him up. 

John hesitates for a moment, then takes his hand in his own, using James’s strength to leverage himself to his feet. He lets go once he’s steady, looking down at the floor and then up at James again. 

“Thanks,” he says a bit gruffly, then turns to lead the way out of the bathroom. 

Fifteen minutes later they’re up on the roof of John’s apartment building, sitting close together in the golden light of the early evening. John takes a hit from the joint and passes it to James, exhaling slowly. 

“You do this often?” James asks, taking a hit from the joint and glancing sideways at John, tucking his hair behind his ear. For the first time, John notices he’s got that ear pierced, with a small nondescript stud. 

“All the time. Usually by myself, though,” John replies, taking the joint back. “I do most things alone, I don’t really...have someone. Oof, that sounded a lot more maudlin than I intended. Forgive me.”

“You’re forgiven,” James says, chuckling. “I do most things alone, too, now.” He seems to hesitate, reaching out for the joint when John offers it. When next he speaks, he’s holding in a breath of smoke. “I used to have someone. But he’s. Gone.”

“He left?” John asks, but somehow he already knows that’s not what James is saying. 

James, mute, shakes his head and exhales the smoke. 

John shifts, pulling his right knee to his chest. “I’m sorry,” he says, then takes the joint back and finishes it, stubbing it out on the bottom of his shoe. 

“Thank you,” James says quietly, glancing over at John. Their eyes meet, and John feels something in his chest flutter, like he’s got a butterfly trapped in his ribcage. It’s a strange, new feeling, but it’s not unwelcome. 

Eventually they retreat from the roof, back down to John’s apartment. He pauses outside the door and invites James in, but James politely refuses. 

“I should be going, it’s getting near the cats’ dinner time and they’ll never forgive me if I’m late,” he explains, and the smile he gives John then makes him feel warm all over. “But I had a very good time with you, and I’d like to do this again sometime soon.”

“Yeah, yes, um. I’d love to. I’ll text you,” John says, smiling shyly back. 

“Excellent. Have a good evening, John,” James says, and then he’s gone. No attempt at a hug or even a handshake, which John appreciates more than he thinks James knows. 

Sitting alone in his apartment later, though, his mind starts wandering. He thinks about what it might be like to put a hand on James, maybe even slide an arm around him. He hasn’t known him for very long and he doesn’t make a habit of getting up close and personal with people he doesn’t know well, but something about James is just...different. 

When he goes to sleep that night, his dreams are full of James and wine and thick, heady smoke. 

He texts James three days later and asks if he would like to come over around dinner time, since he randomly has the evening off - Willie wanted to pick up an extra shift. John doesn’t (can’t) cook, but he can order takeout as well as anyone. He knows the implications of inviting someone over to your apartment for dinner, but he also knows that James is a gentleman, more than aware of John’s unique circumstances, and not at all the type to push the issue of spending the night. 

When James texts back that he’d love to and he’ll see John at 7, that fluttery, warm feeling starts up in his chest again. It’s only a little past noon when they make their plans, which leaves John with a lot of time to kill and a good deal of nervous energy to expend. He cleans his apartment, showers, washes his hair, picks out what to wear, and even spends some time rearranging things in the living room until they’re just right. Finally, around 6:15, he sits on the couch and resigns himself to watching something mindless on Netflix while fidgeting anxiously with his bracelet. That’s exactly what he’s doing when James knocks on his door at two minutes past 7. 

John jumps up from the couch, then casually saunters over to the door, trying perhaps a little too hard to appear relaxed when he opens it and sees James standing there in all his faded denim, vintage t-shirt glory. 

“Hi,” John breathes, and he can just feel himself grinning like mad. Relaxation fail. 

“Hi,” James murmurs in reply, and John steps back to let him in. 

They order from an Indian restaurant not too far from John’s place, and sit on the couch watching a movie and sharing two curries so spicy they make John’s eyes water. 

“So what’ve you been up to the past few days?” John asks, glancing sideways at James. He must’ve shaved for their evening together, because his mustache and goatee look particularly groomed and John can see every single freckle on his clean-shaven skin. 

“Not much. Designing a place for an older woman who lives by herself and made all her money breeding dogs. Corgis, specifically,” James says, chuckling. “How about you?”

“We had to actually, physically throw someone out of the bar the other night. Good thing Willie was there, I’m not sure how I would’ve handled it alone,” John says. 

“Oh my. I’m guessing that doesn’t happen often,” James says, and John tells him the whole sordid story of the man they had to forcibly remove from the establishment - it involves too much moscato and an illicit ferret smuggled in an overcoat, and John may be embellishing it just a little for effect. The tale makes James laugh, hard, and John feels warmth blooming in his stomach that he’s sure isn’t from dinner. 

They drink a bottle of sweet red wine and talk even more after dinner, and when John looks at his phone and realizes it’s nearly midnight, he’s shocked. It doesn’t feel like James has been there for five hours at all. 

“I should let you go home, it’s late,” John says. What he says next surprises even him: “Unless you want to crash here tonight.”

James looks at him like he’s trying to read him. “That isn’t necessary, I can call a cab and return for my car tomorrow. I’m not— you don’t have to let me stay just because we’ve been drinking.”

“I know I don’t have to. I just.” John takes a breath and fidgets, trying to put into words what he feels. “I feel like I really want you to be here with me tonight. I like having you around, a lot, and I...if you want to stay, please. Do.”

“Alright,” James says softly, running one finger around the rim of his wine glass. When he looks up, their eyes meet, and John feels it like an electric shock. “I’ll make myself comfortable here on the couch, then.”

“Okay,” John agrees, and stands up, fetching James a spare pillow and blanket from the linen closet. He gets him all set up, then stands awkwardly next to the couch while James toes off his shoes and stretches out. “Goodnight, then,” John says, jamming his hands in his pockets for lack of anything better to do with them. 

“Goodnight,” James replies, folding one arm behind his head, squirming like he’s trying to get comfortable. 

John retreats to his bedroom, feeling a bit out of sorts, like something is missing but he’s not sure what. He strips down to his underwear and an old, soft t-shirt, climbing into his bed and browsing the internet on his phone until he falls deeply asleep. 

He wakes with a start in the middle of the night (his phone helpfully informs him it’s 3:47). He sits up and takes a deep breath, wondering if this is something he can really do - if this is something he can actually handle, regardless of how much he wants it. There’s only one way to find out. He swings his one-and-a-half legs over the edge of the bed, puts on his prosthetic, and walks out to the living room. 

“James?” he says, softly, and sees him stir. “Will you come and...be with me? Just, sleep next to me in my bed. I’m not asking for anything else. I’m only saying that for whatever reason I have the strongest desire to sleep next to you tonight and I don’t know what to do with it, really, except to tell you.”

“Yes, of course I will,” James murmurs sleepily. He gets up from the couch, pillow tucked under his arm, blanket trailing behind him, and follows John to the bedroom. 

“This isn’t me offering myself to you,” John says pointedly, his heart in his throat, as he sits on the edge of the bed to remove his leg. “I don’t— I just want you sleeping next to me. Is all.” He settles on his back in bed, swallowing hard. 

“I know,” James says, lying back next to him, making himself right at home with his borrowed pillow and blanket. “You’ve had your boundaries pushed quite a bit, haven’t you?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. 

“Yeah,” John whispers back, hoarse, practically feeling the air between them vibrate. “Do you ever think ‘I’m too young to feel this old’?” he asks, turning over onto his side to face James. Their eyes meet in the darkness, James’s glittering jade. 

“All the time,” James rumbles, and then there’s only silence between them, charged, anticipatory. 

The next John is aware, it’s morning, bright central Californian sunlight streaming in through his windows. He blinks confusedly at the ceiling fan for a moment, then turns, cautious, wondering if the events of the previous night were a dream. 

But no. There’s James, still asleep, one arm flung carelessly over his head and his body twisted at such an angle that his shirt is rucked halfway up up his torso. It looks downright uncomfortable to John, but James seems content enough, snoring lightly and not moving at all except for the steady rise and fall of his chest. John leans over to his nightstand and grabs his phone, busying himself with scrolling through social media while he waits for James to wake up. He can’t explain it, but it feels comfortable and _right_ , having James there in his bed. He hasn’t invited anyone to sleep next to him in years, but there’s something undeniably soothing, almost invigorating, about James’s presence there. He finds himself wanting to be around James all the time, and he— isn’t entirely sure what to do with that want. 

Before he can get too deep in his thoughts, James stirs, slowly joining John in the waking world. He opens his eyes and they smile at each other, both of them a bit shy, uncertain. 

“Hi. Um. I’ll go make us some coffee,” John offers, and puts on his leg and leaves the bed before James can protest. He hears James leave the bedroom behind him as he putters around his tiny kitchen, making them a pot of strong, black coffee. 

Coffee percolating, he turns to face James, watching as he walks out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. He’s still got his vintage t-shirt from last night on, but at some point he shed his jeans and socks, leaving him in a pair of boxer briefs in a bright green color that John wills himself not to stare at. 

“Morning,” James says, standing close but not too close, respectful of John’s personal space in a way that makes him melt a little. 

“Can I kiss you?” John blurts out suddenly, then presses one hand over his mouth as though to force the words back in and un-say them. He can’t, though, obviously - it’s too late. He’s already asked James if he can kiss him. 

“Yes,” James says simply after a beat, his throat working. He looks almost as apprehensive as John feels, his eyes wide and his cheeks flushed faintly pink.

It would be easy to overthink things in this moment, so John doesn’t give himself time to. Instead he leans in, tipping his head to one side and pressing his lips cautiously, fleetingly to James’s. When he rocks back from the kiss, he feels— good. Happy. He feels like he might want to do that again, maybe, once he’s recovered from the delightfully overwhelming sensation of the first one. 

“Was that okay?” John asks, leaning back against the counter. 

“Yes,” James says again with a wry smile twisting his lips. “More than okay, in fact.”

“So I could do it again?” John asks hopefully, and when James murmurs his enthusiastic assent John grasps his biceps in both hands and pulls him close. Their second kiss is lingering, more deeply felt than their first, and John’s head knocks painfully back against the cabinet behind him but he doesn’t care. 

“John,” James rumbles when he pulls away, and they look at each other for a few breaths, both of them flushed and trembling, just a little. 

“Coffee?” John offers, grinning shyly at James and turning to get him a mug from the cabinet he just hit his head on. 

Having feelings like this for someone - it’s all new and different and a little scary for John. But he has a feeling James is right there with him, and knowing he’s got company makes navigating these waters a little less scary. 

When they sit down on the couch to have coffee together, their thighs touch, and John leans into it.


End file.
